ople on shore something worth looking at---they've
waited long enough to see something! One, two, three, four!
One, two, three, four!"

In absolute precision the Gridley High School boys moved at their
work, their swift, deft, strong strokes sending the birch bark
craft darting over the water in a fashion that brought a cheer
from shore.

"Deep breathing just as soon as we're at rest at the line," Dick
warned his chums. "At the start try to make the first breath
carry you for four strokes!"

In a short time the referee had the canoes with their noses at
the line, and at an interval from each other satisfactory to him.

"Thirty seconds to the start!" called the time-keeper. "Twenty
seconds!"

In the Gridley canoe each boy sat bent slightly forward, his paddle
raised at the proper position.

"Ten seconds!" called the starter. Then-----

Bang! Away shot the canoes. Over all other sounds could be heard
Dick's low-toned:

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

The Preston boys heard him, and Dick noted, with amusement, that
they unconsciously adapted their own stroke to his count.

"Cut that numeral business," grunted Bob Hartwell, across the
water. "You're queering our fellows."

"They mustn't listen to our signals," Dick laughed back. "One,
two, three, four!"

"Come on, fellows; get ahead of that Gridley crowd, where we can't
hear 'em," urged Hartwell. "Hanky pank!"

At that the Preston canoe managed to get a slight lead. Dick
did not vary his count, however. He had no objection to being
led slightly to the upper buoy.

Soon, however, Preston High School made the distance two lengths.
Dick began to count a bit faster.

"Put a little more steam on, fellows," he urged.

So the gap was closed up somewhat. But Hartwell, glancing back,
called:

"Mumbleby hoptop!"

Whatever that signal meant the Preston boys were now paddling
a stronger and slightly swifter stroke. Dick, too, increased
the stroke.

Despite it all, however, Preston was now securing more and more
of a lead by almost imperceptible gains. Dave Darrin, in the
bow seat of the war canoe, eyed the water interval between the
two canoes with a frowning glance.

"More steam!" Dick urged. As the Gridley canoe went creeping
up on the rival craft, Hartwell muttered another of his ridiculous
code signals.

"Preston hasn't let itself out yet, and we're next door to panting
already," Tom Reade told himself, with a sinkin